Paris is the City of Sisterly Love

A gargoyle on the front of Notre Dame cathedral, shot from the upper viewing deck with the city below.

Photograph by: Joanne Blain
, for Canwest News Service

The plan for the chilly morning in Paris was, I was led to believe, to walk from the Louvre to the Arc de Triomphe where I and my three sisters would view the city from the summit. First we had to penetrate the ring of scammers around the Louvre. I told the supposed Zimbabwe freedom campaigners that I would not make a cash donation. Then a man walked towards me and picked up a gold ring from the ground. Was it mine? No, he should take it to the lost and found. No, I must have it he said. He closed my left hand around it and took my right and kissed it. Ooh la la. He said he was hungry and asked for some money. I gave the ring back and walked on but I'd like to know how he retrieves the ring after he gets the money.

We walked across the Tuileries and admired the park and the splendid buildings visible at the end of the streets that cut across it, the immense golden statues glinting above the chestnut trees. The scale of the Champs Elysees was just as grand and the Arc de Triomphe was the glorious crown of the promenade. Well done, Baron Haussmann!

Do we really want to go to the top of the Arc de Triomphe, Carole said when we got there, the way you ask someone if they really want to drive a motorcycle after drinking two bottles of wine. To persist would mean assuming moral responsibility if the experience was disappointing. We vacillated. She pressed her agenda; she wanted to go to the Chanel store which was conveniently located a few blocks away.

When we got there I suggested that we could just look in the windows. I didn't come all the way to Paris to look in windows, Carole said. I didn't come all the way to Paris to go to Chanel, I thought and didn't say.

I pictured: hushed, empty, recession-scarred, snooty. Chanel was: unable to keep pace with an American, French, Russian and Chinese throng, cultists clad head to foot in Chanel goods and demanding more jackets and shoes and bags and boots and necklaces, gloves, earrings and belts. The vendeuses were chic and calm and pleasant and while Carole shopped they offered Barbara, Deborah and I--obviously not players-- coffee. We sat on the central couch, a row of stuffed cabbages in our layered sweaters and raincoats. Carole bought an expensive gold-and-pearl necklace with the all-important Chanel Cs. The gold wasn't gold and the pearls weren't pearls but, on the other hand, Chanel didn't pick her pocket on the way out the door.

We have made four of these trips together now and this is how things go. Carole shops in expensive places that the rest of us can't afford. Deborah and Barbara search out nightlife with the purpose of spotlighting the fact that Carole and I are older and stodgier than they. I want to wander and get lost, am unable to present a case for getting lost (cases must be presented for all group activities, and all activities are group activities), and then behave like a petulant five year old when I don't get my way. There follows rolling of eyes, recriminations and silent vows, and even announcements that this trip is the last trip. Rinse and repeat.

Something more than the mere resurrection of family dynamics haunts these holidays. In an alien culture (the New York trip had its moments) we don't speak the language, we don't know how much to tip or the correct pleasantries to employ. We are immigrants for a week, a travelling miniature ghetto. We're dressed differently than the natives. We bicker among ourselves and ancient slights turn into roiling feuds in the crowded spaces of small hotel rooms. Our straggly parade down the sidewalk makes a minor spectacle. Carole is in the advance, on the scent of high-end retail. Barbara is darting off to view architectural points of interest and so assert her adult independence despite being the youngest. I am grim and sulking in the middle and Deborah is shaking her head and bringing up the rear. We are alert to notes of hauteur or unfriendliness from those we encounter and we drink wine and tell stories of the old days. We want to belong and we want to remain who we are.

To be adrift in Paris for a week with a return ticket to one's home in Canada is not being a true immigrant, and the cultural discomforts of the mere tourist are despised if they are mentioned at all. The "traveller," on the other hand--the one who discovers the out-of-the-way oddities and cafes and who learns the dialect and strides down the avenues as if he or she owns them--is admired. He or she travels alone, a new skin being less noticeable and more easily picked up on one's own.

It is good to be out of place now and again. It makes us understand, just a little, how the outsider feels. It reminds us of when we were outsiders, perhaps when we were starting a new job, moving to a new school or a new town, or marrying into a new family. Maybe we simply began a new sport where everyone else was accomplished and familiar with the rules. Maybe we were a very average sort of adolescent and believed that everyone else in the world knew what they were doing. Remembering how it feels on the outside makes you nicer to teenagers and tourists who come to your own city. It makes you notice what is going on around you. It makes you realize that golden Cs don't necessarily buy membership in the club and it makes you realize that we all belong somewhere and with someone. I have been led to believe that next spring I belong in London with Carole, Deborah and Barbara.

We encourage all readers to share their views on our articles and blog posts. We are committed to maintaining a lively but civil forum for discussion, so we ask you to avoid personal attacks, and please keep your comments relevant and respectful. If you encounter a comment that is abusive, click the "X" in the upper right corner of the comment box to report spam or abuse. We are using Facebook commenting. Visit our FAQ page for more information.